


do know much about history

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Basically some history of the Spellmans and the sisters, F/F, July Fic Swap Challenge, except now it's august ;p, except we want it to be shippy so it is ;p, sort of shippy but also not shippy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20119063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: Hilda has always had a hard time remembering names and dates.It's not that history bores her, it's that it all seems very far away.Thankfully she's always had the best sort of teacher to tell her what's what.





	do know much about history

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MinervaFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaFan/gifts).

> so I absolutely Love the history/myth MinervaFan writes in her fics!  
could not hope to replicate it myself, so here's a mortal spin-off of Spellman witch history.  
and of course, as always, some spellman sisters ;)  
i really hope you like it!

If held at gunpoint, or simply asked very politely, little Zelda Spellman can recite family history from the greatest witch to the mightiest warlock.

She does so perfectly. Proudly.

Littler Hilda Spellman cannot.

It isn’t from lack of effort.

When Mother instructs her thusly, she stands up straight, fists tucked tight in pinafore pockets, and valiantly lists the Spellman line as best she can.

Rowena Spellman married Herbert Nestor and they begat Priscilla Spellman, who never married but begat Jordan Spellman who married Jenny Inge and begat Francis Spellman who married Jonathon Night and begat Toby—

And when she inevitably falters and Mother instructs her anew, she holds her hands straight out and only flinches a smidgeon when there’s a sharp _thwap!_ of a wooden ruler on tiny knuckles.

It scares more than it stings.

At least that’s what Edward says when she returns to her seat with burning cheeks and aching fingers and tears pinpricking the inner corners of her eyes.

Zelda usually doesn’t say anything.

But when they’re excused to go be children in some other corner of the house, or preferably outside, Zelda offers Hilda the coveted periwinkle chalk and lets her draw the lines for hopscotch.

They skip on one foot, then two feet, then one again—reciting family history in hopping rhythm.

When Hilda’s feet or tongue trip, Zelda helps her up and has her start again.

Eventually, Hilda is able to pass through a recitation, wobbly but whole.

Her hand doesn’t hurt at all when Zelda squeezes it encouragingly.

~*~

It’s Hilda’s summer fourteen when Zelda tells her the secret to it all.

“They’re just people, Hilda,” she articulates, stretched out on gingham and grass, pale skin only freckling under the sun’s hazing rays.

“It’s easier to remember people than it is names.”

She’s reading a book on hexes, a pearly hand resting on her brow as she tries to protect from glare.

Hilda is reading their family tome, squinting and pouting and panting because the day is hot and they’re stuck outside until the next lesson.

The end of that lesson will be holding an exam. One she will most assuredly fail.

“Easy for you to say. To you, somehow, they’re people. To me, they’re just names and dates and so on. It’s rather dry.”

Book of hexes closed with a slam, Zelda sighs and sits up. Stands and paces.

“You’re missing the point of it though. The things they did. The lives they had. The _gossip._”

Hilda’s stare is drier than the day.

“There’s no gossip in history, Zelda. Especially not ours.”

“Maybe not the way you’re reading it.”

Her scoff hits deaf ears as Zelda grips the hem of her dress.

Hilda’s next noise is more scandalized as Zelda pulls it up over her head.

“What are you doing?” Hilda’s question can only be called a squawk.

Zelda is now only in her cotton shift, the white of it stark and pure against green, green grass.

“It’s _hot_, Hildegard.”

And Hilda can see her rationale.

Sweat glistens on Zelda’s collarbones.

Thick tendrils of fire-soaked hair sticks to the side of her neck.

Zelda is simply rosy.

“Can’t you imagine?” She says, arms stretching towards the eternal blue sky, a pinpoint of youth against the fleeting afternoon. “Our ancestors did things just like this.”

“I doubt it.” Hilda mutters.

Zelda’s lifted brow is enough to quiet her skepticism.

She flips through the family’s book, reads aloud a section.

“‘_And in April 17th, 1492, Priscilla visited her cousin Lenore in Hartford._’ Find interest in that.”

It only takes one tap to Zelda’s chin before she comes up with an answer.

“I believe in that time, she visited her cousin’s coven, told Lenore’s mother they were going to learn the new songs assigned for black mass, and in reality, had elicit affairs with at least three different warlocks.”

Hilda’s gasp is properly astounded.

“Oh come off it, can’t possibly be true.”

“It is too.”

Zelda flops back down on their picnic blanket, her head connecting a bit too sharply on Hilda’s rather sensitive shins.

Hilda makes noises of complaint. Zelda does not.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Go ask Grandmother. She told me firsthand.”

“She only talks to me about cooking.”

Zelda rolls so the flat of her ear is pressed against Hilda’s leg (Hilda’s tries not to notice that the rolling hurts), and frowns.

“Poor you. You’ve got a knack and an interest in the only thing our grandmother enjoys. How terrible for you, that you’ve inherently got an in on being her favorite.”

Hilda isn’t sure how her side of the conversation miscalculated, and she isn’t sure how to soothe the rather true yet rather unfair statement. Still, she’s loath to make their breezy day go to waste.

“Lemon drop?” She offers, the crisp paper bag an apology resting on warm palms.

Zelda’s nose only wrinkles further.

“No. I don’t know why you like such sour things.”

She rolls so the back of her head is once against digging against Hilda’s shin, glaring up at the sky.

Hilda’s sure she has at least two new bruises forming.

“Been conditioned to, I s’pose.”

Zelda doesn’t answer.

The silence lasts long enough for several fluffy clouds to pass them by.

“‘_June 24th, 1740. Jordan traded two cauldrons and a sachet of lavender for one black goat_.’ What’s the scandal in that?”

Zelda’s eyes gleam.

Hilda knows she’s been forgiven.

“Well, the reason he needed a black goat was because he’d been hexed by a bitter ex-lover, and _that _was because...”

~*~

Autumn Equinox is a favorite of witch holidays.

For the Spellman clan, it means reunion and mischief.

Zelda is excited because this year they are traveling internationally to meet the very most distant of relatives.

Hilda is excited because a traveling Zelda is a happy Zelda. And a happy Zelda is affectionate. And infectiously naughty.

Even the hip bumps and shoulder shoves Zelda does as she manhandles her way into having far more than half of their shared trunk feels fairly conspiratorial.

“I can’t wait to see Cousin Bartholomew again,” she gushes, practically vibrating her excitement all through the room. “Last time he brought me pearls from Leizhou.”

“I thought Mother made you give them back?” Hilda asks as she subtly pulls one of Zelda’s fifteen frocks out of the trunk and swaps it with her own.

“What Mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Zelda’s hair flounces as she turns to rummage through their closet, lips pursed as nothing meets her approval.

“I need every scandalous detail of Aunt Essie’s latest affair with that mortal—_whatever_ her name was.”

Hilda’s noise is noncommittal to Zelda’s back, the younger sister trying unsuccessfully to take out and hide her older sister’s extraneous clothes under the bed.

“And Holland’s got a new baby, Hilda. Can you believe it?”

“Can’t,” comes Hilda’s distracted reply.

Zelda combs through dresses on racks and wonders at how she and Hilda will look together at the dinner party.

“Do you think he’ll let us hold him?” She asks, distracted as well, imagining Hilda in the black dress before her.

“Who? Ambrose?”

“Of course, you ninny, who else?”

She shakes her head, shoves the dress farther back in the closet. Hilda would get too hot in all velvet.

“Well, I hope so. I love babies.”

Hilda’s comment is lost on Zelda, whose lips are cooing delight as she finds the perfect outfit.

She turns, thrusts it out in Hilda’s direction, eyes catching and rolling on all the clothes Hilda’s failed to successfully hide that she’ll just pack anyway.

Hilda’s jaw goes slack.

“I’m still taking all of those. And you’re wearing this.”

“I am _not._”

“I said you are, so you are.”

“It’s so... improper.”

“It’s silk.”

“_Exactly_.”

“It goes well with one of my outfits, and if you’re going to stand at my side as you’ve done at all these events, then you need to not clash so much.”

Zelda puts the dress in the trunk.

Hilda pulls it out.

Zelda tugs it from her grip.

Hilda tugs it back.

Zelda’s lips pull upwards before Hilda’s nervous giggle even escapes—then Hilda’s flat on her back on the bedroom carpet and Zelda’s digging relentless fingers into her sides and she’s shrieking mercy and crying uncle.

There’s a flurry of abandoned skirts and blouses all around them when Zelda finally lets Hilda breathe.

She’s red-cheeked triumphant, the gleam in her eye offering no other way than her own.

Hilda looks up, sees this glory.

Her cheeks flush, but she’d chock it only to her past tickling assault.

“Fine.” She huffs out.

It’s not a _You win_, but Zelda gloats as though it is.

“Just as I thought.”

Hilda’s harrumph is audible as she sits up and fusses with her twisted clothes.

She pauses when Zelda’s fingers are soft and full up of her hair, gently carding through long locks and soothing the tangles.

“You don’t have to wear it to family dinner.”

Now it’s Zelda who’s breathless.

“But please bring it. Wear it. _Some time_.”

Hilda swallows. Watches Zelda watch her throat.

“Alright.”

Her answer is only a croak, but Zelda’s beaming grin is worth it.

Worth everything.

And then Zelda is flouncing up, picking up the clothes Hilda had put away and shoving them all into the trunk, closing it with a solid _thunk!_

She turns, eyes glinting mischievous.

Hilda grows giddy and forgets the lack of her packing space.

“Just you wait, sister,” Zelda says, grabbing her hand and pulling her out the door.

“This time round, _we’ll _be causing scandal the Spellman books will write about.”

~*~

“And that’s when Francis Spellman met Jonathon Night and danced on the Greendale mayor’s roof.” Hilda says, patting Sabrina’s tiny golden head as the little girl fills out family tree homework.

Craft paper and multiple Crayola’s scatter across the coffee table. Hilda tries not to notice how they scrape and mar the dark cherry wood’s finish.

Zelda sits across from her family and ignores them from behind a German magazine.

“How d’you remember this stuff, Auntie Hilda?” Sabrina’s high voice pipes up, chubby fingers gripping green wax as she connects lines between Spellmans and makes their branches.

“There’s _so many_ names here.”

“It’s easy to remember family if you think of them as just people.”

Hilda hears Zelda’s indignant huff from behind her paper.

She grins because Zelda can’t see it, and because Sabrina doesn’t know who she’s citing.

“How do you know them as people?” Sabrina asks, distracted and doodling a pink flower at the bottom of her page.

“Well, I was told stories about them.”

“Who told you stories?”

Zelda’s paper goes down.

Hilda winks a blue-shadowed eye.

“A very good teacher.”

The paper goes back up like a blush.

Sabrina looks up at Hilda imploringly, an ocean of curiosity in those big baby browns.

“Will you tell me some stories?”

Nothing on earth could compel Hilda to say no.

“Of course, lamb. Point to anyone and I’ll tell you.”

Sabrina ponders, a stained index finger hovering over family history until she chooses a name at seemingly random.

“That one.”

“Ah, Locasta Spellman. Well, in the 1690s, your ancestor had the very _worst_ idea to visit Massachusetts in the spring time and barely escaped with her life...”


End file.
